Potato Lake

The lake is up in the north, in a land that is filled with lakes, and where there are forests of maples and oaks and pines where there are no lakes. It’s called Potato Lake and his father has a joke that it’s shaped like a fishhook but it’s right next to a lake called Fishhook Lake that’s shaped like a potato and someone switched the names around. They go there after his father finishes with work for the year and stay in a cabin for what feels to Faolán like forever even though he knows it is just the summer. A dirt path stretches along the lake at the top of a steep hillside of sandy soil, studded with trees and soft roots that Faolán can catch as he makes his way down. The lodge is at one end of the path, up at the highest point of the woods and there are cabins along it every so often. There are stairs made of packed sand and logs in the hillside but Faolán likes to climb down. At the bottom of the hillside is the beach, which is only about twenty feet wide before it hits the water. The lake has all kinds of things growing in it, and the water near the shoreline is cold, but Faolán, who is six this summer, doesn’t mind. He enjoys swimming in the cold clear part of the lake and seeing the alien landscape below as he swims over it, looking at all the different colored rocks and weird plants. The rocks are black and olive and white and red and there are even quartz crystals and he likes to watch the tiny minnows that form small schools and dart about in the shallow part of the lake near the beach. He uses a snorkel and a pair of goggles and feels like he can stay underwater all day.

He stays near the shore, though. The lake bottom drops off precipitously as one swims out into it. About twenty feet from the shore he can no longer keep his head above water if he stands. Another few yards past that the water is twice as deep as he is tall, and another few yards past that it gets dark, which he doesn’t like at all. Something about the dark, deep water frightens him. There’s a pontoon boat anchored out there that his older half-brother and half-sister sometimes swim to with the rest of the teenagers, but he never goes out to it, preferring to spy on the little silver fish and collect pretty rocks to stud his sand castles with and give to his mother as gifts, treasures he presents with utter solemnity as if they could somehow comfort her and make everything ok. He sees she is filled with fear and doubt even at the lake when they are supposed to be having a good time because she is not sure she wants to stay married to his father.

He doesn’t understand it but he knows it to be true. He knows they fight but he does not know why. The arguments don’t happen in front of him, but rather in his periphery and though he only ever gets little glimpses of them, he is watchfully aware of them. There is a seismic quality to them that makes him feel like the whole world might shift under his feet and slide away and leave him falling, spinning in a vast and distant night all alone, swirling like a burning cinder above one of the campfires they sometimes have on the beach, floating on the dark and heated air until he is pulled out past the pontoon boat and finally plunged into the deep black water to be dragged down to the bottom of the lake by the currents and doused for all time. He doesn’t understand why his mom wouldn’t want to stay with his dad. He thinks his dad is the most intelligent man who has ever lived, and he’s funny, and he doesn’t mind telling Faolán stories at night while he drinks beer and whiskey, and he sneaks Faolán a sip every now and then which makes him feel like they are part of a secret club together. He tries to be intelligent like his dad and thinks about the glowing campfires and the cinders and the dark and how the darkness always comes when and where there is no light. He wonders if that means the darkness is a kind of a default, always there and only kept away for short periods and if that means that things that “are-not” last forever like death but decides that can’t be right because god is forever and god is light and life.

Today his father is supposed to take him fishing.

Faolán likes to go out in the little motorboat, likes the way the prow climbs up out of the water and the fact that there’s no speed limit, which he finds amazing. He loves the feel of the wind on his face, almost blinding him as they shoot across the water, sometimes crossing another boater’s wake and skipping along the surface like a stone. He likes looking at the little sonar his dad sets up, baffled over the orange light on the screen and constantly asking his father what everything means. His father, patient, explaining it all to him, but it’s like Faolán can’t keep it all in his head, he can remember bits and pieces but in the end trying to understand the sonar is like trying to catch all the minnows in one of the little schools or trying to puzzle out how to make his mother and father stop fighting.

Faolán is wearing swim trunks and a pair of leather moccasins from the White Earth Reservation and he pads off the side of the path into the woods, pretending to be a Chippewa. It’s as if it’s always twilight in the woods no matter how bright the sun is, like it’s about to rain. He likes the cool, humid air and dim light here. He stalks from one trunk to another, slipping like a shadow between the trees, across the pine needles underfoot. He keeps his feet low to the ground, trying to be silent, but in spite of his efforts to be soundless, his foot slips and sticks into the loop of a rough root that protrudes from the soil and he stumbles to his knees where he sees the skull.

It’s half buried in the forest floor but even so he sees the ivory gleam of the bone and realizes he is looking into an eye socket. The skull lies on its side, and he understands at once that it is not human. It’s long, some kind of animal. Curious, he crawls across the earth and pushes his thick brown bangs up out of his face and begins to dig it out of the ground. The earth is soft and yielding even under his young fingers and it isn’t long before he is brushing the dirt and plant material from the skull. It is almost completely clean, without any remaining flesh on it whatsoever. The lower jawbone is missing and some of the back teeth in the upper jaw are gone as well. The remaining teeth are flat and Faolán remembers a book about dinosaurs he read and thinks that the animal must have been some kind of plant eater. Excited, he picks the skull up and carries it carefully back to the cabin. This is a real treasure, better than the feathers he finds from time to time and the rare quartz rocks from the lake. He’s never seen anything like it before. He holds it delicately, as if the whole thing might crumble in his hands if he isn’t careful. He’s so caught up in making sure the skull survives the journey back to the cabin and that he doesn’t trip over any of the roots that jut out of the dirt path that he doesn’t even see Cali standing outside the cabin next door until he almost bumps into her.

Cali is seven, older than Faolán. Her family is staying in a cabin just up the hill from the one Faolán and his family are in, closer to the lodge where the adults go sometimes to drink beer and where they have a bunch of old comic books that Faolán reads on rainy days and pictures of men holding large fish on walls that look like logs. There is an old timey cash register and sometimes his dad gives him quarters so he can have a soda or candy from the lodge or play the pinball machine.

She is a little taller than him, with skin kissed golden by the summer sun. Faolán doesn’t know what a cornflower is yet but a few years later he sees one and instantly recognizes that the papery blue flowers are the same color as her eyes were and the thin silver leaves remind him of her fine blonde hair. By that time he can no longer recall her name, but he can see her clearly in his mind’s eye when it is quiet for the rest of his life.

She asks him what do you have? and that’s when he finally notices her, and stops in his tracks. His care for the thing he is holding almost leads him to break it. The momentum keeps it moving forward when he stops short and it bounces from one of his small hands to the other as he nearly drops it in surprise, but finally he gets a grasp on it and sighs in relief. Then he turns to Cali.

It’s a skull! he answers, isn’t it neat?

She looks at it closely. Can I touch it? she asks.

Sure, he says, but let’s go inside, I want to put it in the cabin. Cali nods and they dash into Faolán’s cabin.

Inside, it’s dark and smells like beer-battered fried fish. His parents and his sister might be at the lake or up at the lodge, he’s not sure. He runs to his room and puts the skull down. Cali follows him in her flip flops and swimming suit.

We have to talk about something important, she says then.

Faolán is puzzled. What is it? he asks.

She answers I don’t have a boyfriend but you can be my boyfriend if you want. And then she pauses before she continues but it has to be a secret. You can’t tell anybody.

Faolán isn’t sure how to respond but his heart begins to beat a bit faster in his chest. He isn’t sure he wants a girlfriend but he’s curious. Finally he decides that he thinks it will make her happy if he is her boyfriend and so he says ok.

She smiles at him and spins around and then says that means you have to kiss me.

It does? asks Faolán. He would never admit it because kissing is gross but the idea of kissing Cali is exciting to him somehow. Her lips are pale pink and her cheeks are pink and she smells like suntan lotion, like sweet flowers and coconuts and something he can’t place and he realizes he really wants to kiss her. His heart is still beating a little faster than normal.

Yes she replies seriously.

Well, if I have to, he says, resigned to his fate, and then she kisses him. It’s wet and a little sticky and Faolán thinks it should be gross but it’s not and he doesn’t know why.

After the kiss she tells him you’re not doing it right.

What am I doing wrong? he asks.

You have to hug me while you kiss me she replies and I have to hug you. Isn’t it obvious?

Faolán doesn’t think it is obvious at all, but he hugs her and she hugs him back and they kiss again and to Faolán it seems like they should be finished but she won’t let go. Finally she does and then she says do you want to see what I look like and his heart keeps beating faster and he starts to feel like he’s got too much spit in his mouth so he swallows it and it’s hard to swallow and he feels embarrassed but yes, he does want to see, very much and she tells him ok but I have to see you too and he says ok and she asks do you promise and he says I promise and he knows they aren’t supposed to do this, he’s not supposed to be naked in front of other people especially not a girl it’s embarrassing but she takes her swimming suit off and looking at her his heart is like a triphammer in his chest and the blood is surging through him and his whole body is burning like when he had the bad fever but it doesn’t hurt and he takes his swimming suit off and she says now we kiss again so they do and she says you can touch me if you let me touch you and he is incapable of saying no to this. Faolán feels strange and wonderful almost like a headache but it’s down in his body and it feels good instead of bad, it feels so so good and it keeps increasing and increasing until his legs shake and feel weak and the pleasure is finally too much to bear and he cannot take any more of the feeling and he pushes her gently away.

His eye falls on the skull and for some reason he cannot look away from it and he stares at it, suddenly feeling different and lonely and distant and hypnotized and thinking about the darkness and she asks him do you love me now and Faolán replies yes, I do, but the words leave his mouth leaden and automatic as if he is in a trance. He feels so far away, farther than the moon or the sun which he knows are millions of miles away and mesmerized, as though someone else is controlling his actions and words, and the bone blurs as he stares spellbound at the skull for a few more moments and wonders about the darkness and things that are forever. She says something but he cannot make it out. Finally he shakes his head to clear it and the world comes back a little and he looks at her and asks what did you say? She looks so serious and pretty and she says I said I love you too and Faolán says I have to go to the beach now and Cali says oh, I have to go to the lodge and then they put their swimsuits on. And then she gives him a scared look that he doesn’t understand and she says you can’t tell anyone and he says ok and she says you have to promise and Faolán says I promise. It is a promise he keeps for many many years. Then they walk outside of the cool cabin and back into the hot summer day and she runs off up towards the lodge, and Faolán runs down to the beach, jumping in places over the irregular steps made from dirt and wooden beams and the roots that twist like gnarled arms across the pathway.

When he gets to the beach he sees his mother wading in the water and she is holding his sister, who is two, and his father is on the pier watching them and drinking beer with their dog Maudie-audie next to him, black fur gleaming in the light, the sun hitting her gentle brown eyes and making her pupils so small and the little white ruff at her neck rising and falling and her pink tongue lolling out as she pants.

Faolán runs on to the wooden pier, his feet in the moccasins drumming lightly on the gray weathered planks as he does and his father hears him and looks up and says where have you been?

And Faolán is about to tell him but then he remembers the promise and he says only I found a skull, dad. It’s so neat! But I don’t know what kind of skull it is, only that it’s a plant eater. Will you look at it later? Faolán is certain his father will know what kind of skull it is because he knows things like that. He feels a little guilty not saying anything about being a boyfriend but the promise hangs in his mind like a gateway filled with fire.

His father raises an eyebrow and then he laughs and says of course I will! Do you want to go fishing? And his voice is a little thick and slow and his laugh is a little loud and Faolán sees his mother look up sharply.

Yes! Let’s go!

So he takes Faolán’s hand and they walk a little further down the dock to the boat which makes small liquid toonk! sounds as it bounces gently against the pier and Maudie-audie jumps in, wagging her tail and his dad puts a cooler into the boat and then puts the sonar in there, and a net, and has started helping him get his lifejacket on when he sees his mother striding down the pier, and Faolán can tell she is angry and he hopes it’s not because she knows about him being Cali’s boyfriend.

Tad, she calls. His father’s name is Tadgh, but his mother always calls him Tad. She’s moving quickly across the weather-beaten boards of the dock and her eyes are flashing and there are high red spots on her cheeks.

Tad, do you really think it’s safe to take him out there now? she asks and her voice is as sharp as her movements.

Drika, his father replies slowly and with deliberate calm, his tone and tongue slurring a little and as languid as hers is sharp, it’ll be fine.

You’ve had a lot to drink, Tad.

It’ll be fine. His father’s tone hardens a little.

Faolán knows what’s coming and squirms in his lifejacket. His heart is beating faster and his stomach starts to turn over but it’s not like when he was with Cali earlier, it doesn’t feel good at all. He wonders if he can head the whole thing off and does his best.

Please mom. Please. We were going to go yesterday but we didn’t get to. Please let us, he says.

See, Drika? He wants to go.

You were supposed to take him yesterday but you didn’t because you couldn’t function. And you slept all day.

For christ’s sake, Drika. We're supposed to be relaxing. We're on vacation, let him have some fun. Let me have some fun. Faolán, get in the boat.

Faolán scrabbles into the boat and pets Maudie-audie and turns and gives his mother an exaggerated smile. His mother squares her shoulders at his father and seems about to say something else but Faolán interrupts.

It’ll be ok mom! he says, I’ll watch out! And I’m a good swimmer!

His mother flicks her head over to him, her chin raised, eyes blazing.

Don’t make a scene, Drika, says his dad.

She shakes her head and murmurs why the hell not but then she looks at Faolán and her shoulders sag and she says fine, then. But she sounds so sad to Faolán and he wishes he knew what to do so it wasn’t like this and he’s struck with an impulse to follow her as she stalks back up the dock, to help her not be sad any more but he doesn’t know how.

His dad steps into the boat humming a little and sits down at the back near the big black outboard motor and smiles at Faolán and waggles his eyebrows and says she’ll be alright. And Faolán believes him.

His father tells Faolán let’s get her unmoored and then he grabs the pull starter and rips the cord from the engine and it comes roaring to life in a fog of blue smoke and the smell of oil and gasoline.

Faolán loves all the weird words associated with boating, starboard port fore and aft cleat and outboard and prow and moored and he repeats these in a kind of calming song in his head as he helps his father untie the boat and soon they push away from the pier and begin whipping along through the water on the open lake and Faolán gives himself to the exhilaration and exultation of the wind rushing past them as the prow of the boat climbs up out of the water and he holds on for dear life laughing and Maudie-audie barks and he forgets the distant feeling and his mother’s glare and his dad’s fuzzy speech as they zoom along bouncing gently across the surface. He looks back only once to watch their wake fan out behind them like a long white apron of churned cream or like the white ruff of fur on Maudie’s chest.

First they go to a branch of the lake that looks like a river to Faolán, and they have to go under a bridge which Faolán loves and pretends is some massive gate to another world. The little river banks are lined by trees and their boughs almost touch overhead and in some places there are tree trunks with branches and leaves still on them fallen in the brown water. His father stops the boat and it rocks from side to side and turns slowly as its own wake catches up to it. Faolán tries to keep his balance in the boat and his father sees this and does an exaggerated pretend falling routine which makes Faolán laugh. Then his father opens the cooler and gets a beer and a covered Styrofoam cup. His father takes the lid off the cup and Faolán looks inside. It is filled with wet earth and worms that move through it like slinkies, bunching up and then extending impossibly and they remind him a little of how his body was when Cali touched him earlier that afternoon but he doesn’t talk about it because he promised. His dad fishes a worm out and offers it to Faolán. This is the only part of fishing he doesn’t like. He wishes they could use the bright plastic and rubber lures from his dad’s tackle box even though they smell funny but his dad says the worms are better bait. He takes the worm and waves it ineffectually at the hook dangling from his rod but he is afraid of the sharp barb on the fishhook and doesn’t want to get too near it. Jesus christ, his dad says, give me that, and he takes the worm and baits the hook with it for Faolán. You have to learn to do this yourself he says and Faolán says yes dad but secretly he doesn’t want to and he wonders if maybe someday that means they won’t be able to fish together any more. But for now the job is done and his dad gives him the ok to cast so he whips the rod back then forward and pushes the button down as he does so and the silver line goes singing out over the water and lands with a splash and sinks a little. His dad says that was a good cast! and then slings his own line out. Then he takes a long pull from the beer can and crushes it and drops the can in the bottom of the boat. He takes the throttle of the motor, which has been idling, grinding and spitting slowly and tweaks it slightly so it smooths out and the boat begins to move calmly through the water while their lines drag behind, which his dad calls trolling. Faolán reels his line in and his dad says go slow and Faolán nods and casts the line out again loving the zip of it as the momentum shifts forward and the line slides smoothly from the reel and lands far away.

On the second cast he tries to go slower as he reels the line in and his dad opens another beer. He casts again and again as they slide along the dappled water and the sun shines through the leaves above. Finally he feels the line catch on something and jerks the rod back, but his dad shakes his head and points to a deadfall in the water where the line is.

You’re hung up on a tree or something. Not a fish he says.

His father clips the line and then says well I was hoping to get some bluegill over here but maybe it won’t happen today. Let’s get out of this creek and back out on the lake some, whaddya say? They reel their lines in and his father opens the throttle a bit and they begin to move through the channel a little faster. As they clear the creek Faolán makes himself bait the new hook his dad has tied on his fishing line. With a grimace, he reaches into the Styrofoam cup and pulls out a worm. The feel of it expanding in his hand makes him feel slightly nauseous and his fingers start to shake a little but he swallows the spit in his mouth and stabs the worm with the new hook and is so relieved when it is over. His dad opens the throttle as they get out into clear waters and they go speeding across the surface once again.

This time his father pilots the boat out into the middle of the lake, as far from the shore as possible before cutting the engine. The clouds have begun to cover the sun and the wind has picked up and the boat sways in the water as waves chop the hull. Faolán looks over the side of the boat and the water looks dark and cold and rough and he can’t see anything moving in it. The clouds reflect in the water so everything looks like dull metal. It seems very quiet with the motor off except for the gray waves slapping the side of the boat and it makes him shudder a little and reminds him of the distant feeling earlier. He looks up to see if his dad notices but he is looking at the sonar screen.

Here’s good. Let’s try this, his father says.

Faolán casts as they drift in the middle of the lake. Faolán can see the shoreline but it is too distant for him to make out any details no matter what direction he looks in. He knows he couldn’t swim to it. Then he hears something that catches his ear, a long and low lonely cry from far away that swells and swells and finally breaks like a sob and echoes out over the water. Several moments later he hears it again from a different direction.

What’s that dad? he asks, awestruck.

Loons. That’s the call they make when they lose each other.

I hope they find each other says Faolán. And he does.

They coast along for what seems like a long time to Faolán and he throws cast after cast and his dad drinks beer. A pile of red-and-white cans builds in the bottom of the boat and the beer smell mixes with the fishy scent of the boat and the lake and the gasoline smell of the outboard motor to create a heady fug. The air is humid and Faolán is happy. He’s not paying much attention to anything, just sort of floating along and petting Maudie-audie and he doesn’t really even feel the first bump on the line. But it comes again, and then again, and then he does notice. There’s one more big bump and on instinct he pulls back on the rod which bends in a whiplike curve under the strain of whatever has the other end of the line and then, alarmed that it might snap he pushes the button and lets some of the line out.

His dad hears the zipping sound of the line and sits up, suddenly paying attention.

Is it another tree Faolán asks, preparing for disappointment.

I don’t think so, his dad says. Look at it. Something is taking the line.

Faolán looks up and sees that the line is moving irregularly through the water. It’s not jammed in one place. He pulls the rod up towards his shoulder and something pulls back so hard he almost falls into the lake.

His dad grabs his shoulder and then sits behind him. Faolán can smell the beer on his breath and feel it on his face as his dad wraps an arm affectionately around his stomach for a second and says I think you set the hook just right.

Then the old man orders give it more slack! and Faolán hits the button again and hears the line go whistling out. He holds down on the button until the line comes to a sudden halt and there’s another strong tug.

I don’t think there’s any more line dad! He says.

OK, his dad says, OK start reeling him in then.

Faolán starts to reel the line in. It comes in a ways and then there’s a jerk and he instinctively pulls back and up on the rod which bends again and his dad shouts no, he’ll break the line, let him have the slack you took in and Faolán pushes the button again. For what feels like a long time the thing fights and he reels some line in and then lets it back out, then reels it in and lets the line back out over and over and his arms get tired and start to shake with exhaustion as the wind clears the cloud cover and the sun returns to make the water glitter. Then, very suddenly, he doesn’t feel anything fighting him.

I think I lost him dad he says but his father shakes his head no and says I think you got him. Bring him in. And his father looks over the side of the boat while Faolán reels the line in and he can’t believe how long it takes, his armpits and shoulders and hands are aching but finally his dad grabs the net and scoops it into the water and lifts it out and the fish in the net looks massive to Faolán. It has dark olive scales on its back and in stripes along its golden sides and a white belly and it's a kind of pearly pale pink around the mouth and gills which makes him think about Cali for a moment. The fish is flashing in the sunlight, the scales dazzling with iridescence and shifting hues as it thrashes in the net.

His dad looks back at him beaming and laughing and says that is one of the biggest fish I have ever seen caught out of this lake. And the way he laughs and smiles makes Faolán laugh and smile too and he asks his dad what kind of fish it is.

It’s a walleye his dad says, I thought it might be a northern pike but it’s not.

Walleye are good for eating, right? asks Faolán.

They are, answers his dad, who does the work of putting the fish on the stringer and then ties the stringer to the boat before he lets the fish slide just over the hull into the water and dangle there. He looks at Faolán and says you did really well. Walleye are hard to catch. They turn their prey around so it goes in to their mouth headfirst. That way they know they won’t choke on anything. But it means they are hard to feel on the line when they bump it. You did well.

Faolán’s heart feels full and swollen. His father is proud of him and then he thinks his mom might be happy too, since she won’t have to worry about dinner now, and he thinks that this means there is a good chance that there will be no fighting from now on and that makes him feel as if his heart may burst, he is so happy.

They don’t stay out on the lake for much longer. His dad is satisfied with the catch and Faolán feels too tired to do much more fishing, and besides he doesn’t think he will catch anything else nearly as good, maybe never in his whole life. His dad hauls the stringer out of the water and his fish flops about in the bottom of the boat and he lets Faolán take the throttle and Faolán opens it up as much as he can and they soar towards the shore. They fly frictionless across the surface until he sights the dock and then he slows way down and gives the tiller back to his dad, who takes them in until the boat bumps the dock and Faolán leaps out with Maudie-audie while his dad ties the boat up. Beth who owns the lodge is there and his dad shows her Faolán’s fish and all the adults seem surprised and impressed and say things like that fish is as big as he is and Faolán feels pretty pleased with himself. One of the adults has run off and comes back with a camera and a scale and a measuring tape. They measure the fish and the man declares it is twenty nine inches and ten pounds and eight ounces. He says we have to get a picture of this and his dad brings the stringer over to him with the fish on it and says hold this up for the camera and Faolán takes hold of the stringer and the fish is almost as long as he is tall and much heavier than he realized it would be. The man fiddles with the camera and Faolán’s arm gets so tired but he keeps holding the fish up because if he lets it drop then the tail touches the ground and the man with the camera says hike her high son and takes a picture finally, and Faolán is relieved when he finishes because his hand is sore from the stringer and his arm is sore from the weight of the fish.

Before they leave for the year Beth who owns the lodge has the picture framed and puts it up in the middle of the wall in the lodge behind the bar where the old timey cash register is and where everyone will be sure to see it.

Let’s go clean her, his dad says and they hike up the steep hill to the path that runs along the lake, and they go almost all the way to the lodge but then just before they turn off and there’s a little shack there, wooden slats on the bottom and screens about halfway up the walls. Faolán has been dreading this. This is the cleaning house. His dad opens the door and Faolán is hit with a stench that makes him want to throw up and stops. And his dad is holding the door open and says come on then, we don’t want to let the insects in and Faolán starts to breathe through his mouth but it doesn’t help very much because he can taste the smell and it feels like it sticks to his throat. But he makes himself go into the little hut.

His dad puts the fish on a table as a few flies buzz around inside the cleaning house and especially over a reeking garbage can where the odor is the strongest. His dad takes a long knife in a light brown leather sheath out and says to Faolán do you want to do it? And Faolán isn’t entirely sure about what’s involved, but he is certain he does not.

His dad shrugs and lays the fish out on a high workbench and it gives Faolán a lidless stare with the patient expression of underwater things and then his father takes out the knife and runs it through the walleye’s white belly, and the blood pours out red and Faolán feels his mouth fill with saliva like he’s going to throw up, and he thinks again of Cali and the place she has that is like the cut in the fish’s belly. His dad reaches into the slit and pulls the intestines out, and throws them into the reeking garbage can and the flies buzz around like insane things. Then his father runs the knife through the fish again and splits it in half, everything except for the head. And there is so much blood, much more than Faolán realized there would be and it makes him feel lightheaded and a little woozy. Now he’s sure he’s going to throw up and he tells his dad who says not in here, go out into the woods then.

So he pushes the screen door open and staggers out and he hears it slam shut behind him as the spring pulls it back. And he walks a little into the woods and spits a few times. He starts to feel a little better since there’s no smell. The wind shifts and carries the stench of the cleaning house to him and Faolán quickly moves so he’s not downwind any more. As he waits outside he looks up and sees that the sun has started to sink in the sky. He wanders around the area and his father finally comes out and they walk back to the cabin.

His mom and his little sister are in the cabin and his dad tells her all about the fish that Faolán caught and she seems delighted and she starts to make beer batter while Faolán goes into his room and gets the skull to show to his dad who tells him it is a deer skull.

The sun sets and the fish is served, but Faolán keeps thinking about the cleaning house, the flies and the slit in the fish’s belly, and then thinking about the worms crawling through the rich black loam in the white cup and he finds he cannot eat very much fish without feeling ill. So he drinks a lot of water and eats as many potato chips as he can and sort of pushes the fish around on his plate and asks to be excused every few minutes until both his parents are a little tired of him and let him leave.

Faolán goes outside and he sees that the woods are lit by fireflies. He catches one, cupping it between his hands and then opening them so he can see it glow, winking on and then off. He tries to release the firefly but for some reason it doesn’t fly away. It stays on his hand and waves its antenna and glows until Faolán finally brushes it tenderly away and watches it lift off into the quiet and gentle night. Then he hears his sister begin to cry in the cabin and then he can hear his parents talking and their voices begin to rise and sound sharp and he wonders what he did wrong. He felt so certain that the fish would make things ok, he had hoped forever but at least for a while. He thinks about the skull and Cali and the fish and he wanders away from the cabin and out of range of the argument and listens instead to the lake lap the shore far below the wooded path he is on, down the sandy hill with all the roots that he likes to climb, and he listens to the loons call lonely and long out over the water as they look for the ones that have gone. The sound strikes him as sad in a way he has no words for and he has that sense again of a kind of hypnotic distance, of being impossibly far away. He sits in the dark feeling very small and lost, like he is a cinder floating and spinning in the darkness over a campfire, first soaring on the hot air over the flames and then plunging, falling forever down deeper and deeper. He waits there in the night and he wonders if perhaps the darkness isn’t forever after all.

The Basquiat Tarot v1.3

A few weeks ago, the Satrap of Saturn mentioned seeing a couple of stickers of Basquiat paintings and thinking for a moment that they were Tarot cards.  I started looking through some of his paintings online, and soon found that many of his images actually matched up pretty nicely to the Major Arcana.  I put together a deck and shared it with a bunch of friends and acquaintances, and they seemed to get a kick out of it.  I've always liked Basquiat's work, though it's been a while since I looked at it.  It struck me that there were stylistic similarities to the work of one of my favorite OSR artists, Scrap Princess.

Anyway, I've been messing with it and trying to improve it a bit for the last few weeks and I thought I would put it up here.  If anyone can figure out how to edit Boy and Dog in a Johnnypump so it fits a card without excising major parts of it, it would make a near-perfect Fool, so let me know! In any case, feel free to use the cards as an Artpunk Deck of Many Things if you have a campaign you need to end in a hurry.

Here is a PDF of all the images if you prefer that.

Distinctive Musicians III - Guitarists

OK - I have some ACTUAL useable RPG content boiling through my brain so I'm going to stop obsessing over musicians after this post (probably).   There are way too many fantastic musicians to really do this topic justice in a little pot like this, but here are a few of the folks I think are truly over the top:

Charlie Hunter (GARAGE A TROIS, SUPERBLUE, VARIOUS MUSICIANS)

Charlie Hunter plays an eight string and does basslines and guitar lead simultaneously.  He's insanely talented.  The thing below is really a wonderful example; though both the bassline and guitar work is sparse, every note is in the right place at the right time, and I find the whole incredibly relaxing - the word that comes to mind, if you could shear it of the pretentious overtones it's become associated with, is cool.  Hunter's playing isn't always this mellow - some of his work with Bobby Previte is pretty tense - but it's hard to mistake him for anyone else.  There's a playfulness there that I only ever see in the most technically accomplished musicians - guys like Hunter, Les Claypool, or Buckethead - where they are like "now I'm going to do some silly shit and it's still gonna be amazing."  This one doesn't have too much silly shit, but it makes me untense my shoulders when I didn't even realize how tight I was holding them - it just empties the body of stress in some weird alchemy.

Fine Corinthian Leather, by the way, is purely an advertising gimmick.  Ricardo Montalban called the leather used for the upholstery this in a commercial for the 1975 Chrysler Cordoba.  But if anything sounds like fine Corinthian leather should, this is it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MBGvMic-ZDE

Adrian Belew (KING CRIMSON, TALKING HEADS, FRANK ZAPPA, DAVID BOWIE)

I really do not understand why Belew isn't more well known, he is so creative and plays with such joy.  

Everyone, EVERYONE on this track is fucking incredible.  Bill Bruford is a legendary drummer, Robert Fripp (the other guitar on this) could easily be featured separately on this list as well, but Adrian Belew plays lead on this and when Belew plays lead, he makes sounds with a guitar that are hard to believe aren't the sky cracking in two.  Lyrically, I think this is about as perfect a description of obsession as I have ever heard.

I do remember one thing.  It took hours and hours, and by the time I was done with it, I was so involved, I didn't know what to think.

I carried it around with me for days and days...playing little games...like, not looking it for a whole day.  And then, looking at it.  To see if I still liked it.

I DID!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dc6huqPzerY

Robert Fripp (KING CRIMSON, BRIAN ENO, BLONDIE)

The other guy playing guitar on the track above is every bit as unique.  Fripp is a true innovator, cut from the same cloth as Les Paul, who first brought electricity to guitar.  His innovations are too numerous to list, really, but Frippertronics (the introduction of tape loops to his playing, which he started in the late 1970's) and New Standard Tuning deserve special mentions. Here's a lovely quote from him that I think captures his overall approach to the instrument, which, though it can sound incredibly complex, is at its roots an exercise in intentionality and simplicity:

"With a note of music, one strikes the fundamental, and, in addition to the root note, other notes are generated: these are the harmonic series.... As one fundamental note contains within it other notes in the octave, two fundamentals produce a remarkable array of harmonics, and the number of possible combinations between all the notes increases phenomenally. With a triad, affairs stand a good chance of getting severely out of hand."

There are so many things he's done - Fracture is an amazing piece of music, the guitar solo in Baby's On Fire from Here Come the Warm Jets is mesmerizing, his work on the album above with Adrian Belew - all of it is good.  I nearly chose an early piece where he's using Frippertronics, but ultimately decided on Discipline - the thematic counterpart to Indiscipline, above, and from the same album.  If Belew shines on Indiscipline, then the cerebral, beautiful stasis of Discipline is pure Fripp.  Also, King Crimson is probably the roots of math rock.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=en5YRCvppIA

Buckethead (PRAXIS, GUNS AND ROSES)

Buckethead is a once-in-a-generation Mozart level genius at his chosen art.  I listed bands he's been with above, but he is most prolific doing solo work.  Look at this thing - the number of albums he has put out per year since 2010.  In 2015 he put out an album every three or four days.

The thing I like about Buckethead's playing is that it isn't pure shredding for its own sake - he knows how to lay back when he should (listen to Wake the Dead or Whitewash, for example), and even on this track, which is a tour de force of his talent, he takes the time to develop thematic melodies that really push the whole thing to the next level.  I think what I'm trying to say is that he plays with feeling, something I think is missing from some of the other shredders or incredible technical players.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNXwYo-w1HE

James Calvin Wilsey (The Avengers, Chris Isaak)

The King of Slow.  Chris Isaak got the credit for Wicked Game but for my money it is those first two notes from Wilsey and his lead playing that make the song.  Just perfect, haunting, beautiful, the lead floats above the tune like a lonely ghost drifting over the desert. Dude puts his soul out there when he plays like that.  We only got one solo album from this guy, below is the first track from it.  He's already gone, and that sucks.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9haU5gu-Ccg

OK, that is that for now then!  Next up - A return to the World With No Extras - I think!

Distinctive Musicians II - Bassists

OK, so this is a music blog for the time being. After this, I'll probably only do one more of these on guitar players and then return you to your regularly scheduled broadcast.

There are so many really good bass players that I almost feel bad with choosing the five below.  That said, I'm trying to highlight folks that have such a distinctive approach to their instruments that you can tell within a few bars that it's them if you are familiar with them.  Still, leaving John Entwhistle, Stanley Clarke, CAROL KAYE holy moly, Tina Weymouth, CHARLIE MINGUS jesus christ, and Ron Carter out was hard!

Brian Gibson (LIGHTNING BOLT)

Lightning Bolt is a two piece - one guy singing and playing drums, and Brian Gibson. Gibson is a fucking lunatic who plays his bass tuned to cello standard (C G D A) and uses a banjo string for the high A, along with a metric shitton of distortion, a Digitech Digital Whammy pedal and god knows what else (probably a Boss Octave) to get an insanely original sound. I saw these guys for the first time at Gabe's Oasis in Iowa City (the only punk-rock dive in that town, really) and I think I went because Don Caballero was playing. I happened to be towards the back of the crowd and I noticed a bunch of musical gear sitting out on the floor back there. I just figured the drum kit and massive amps were there was because the place didn't have a green room or that it was full and that it would all eventually be moved to the stage. I think that's what everyone thought.

We were wrong.

These guys set up in BACK of the crowd, on the floor, before anyone got there, and started to play immediately when the previous band finished their set, almost no pause at all, essentially taking the entire audience on the back foot and playing with such sheer exuberance and energy that at one point I was laughing with delight and I wasn't alone. They were so loud I could feel the shockwaves hitting my chest and stomach and actually see them moving the liquid in my drink (granted, my position in the rear of the crowd had suddenly become a front row seat but still they were SO loud). It was easily one of the best live shows I've ever seen. I love the fact that they did away with the stage and essentially became one thing with the crowd.  I don't know if they still do that, but they did it at every one of the three other shows I saw them play.

This turns into one of the most ferocious things I have ever heard by a minute and a half in - this thing is seven minutes of churning, blistering, relentless, remorseless aggression and it is just beautiful. I don't even know what genre to put it in. No one else plays like these guys.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nc6IT61FHVg

Bootsy Collins (PARLIMENT FUNKADELIC, PRAXIS, BOOTSY'S RUBBER BAND)

Bootsy, Bootzilla, Boo Man Chu, Captain P-Mo, Fuzzface, the Player, the Zillatron himself. I would not say he's underappreciated, but he's so incredibly distinctive. No one plays like this guy. You can tell when he's playing right away (or that it's someone imitating him, at the very least).

I chose this thing - nearly ten minutes long, with two bass tracks panned extreme left and right (basically one in each ear, headphones recommended). It's long but man is it good, and it really gives you a sense of his range and style. It is not totally indicative of his playing which with P-Funk for example is much more conventional (though only because Bootsy made it conventional), but I think it really showcases his talent. His use of effects here is visionary and really tasteful. He uses an envelope filter quite a lot to get automated wah sounds based on pitch, an expression pedal as a pitch-bender to get up into frequencies the instrument could never reach otherwise, a flanger, at least one kind of delay, and probably a host of other effects, to say nothing of distortion. Sometimes he sounds like the kickback from firing a particle accelerator cannon (or, well, what such a thing should sound like), sometimes he sounds like the trembling digital web of an electronic spider, and sometimes he sounds like the ocean rolling in and then... receding.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FgDk5lo-Zs

Brian Ritchie (VIOLENT FEMMES)

I don't think Ritchie is on anyone's list of "greatest bass players" but he has such a unique sound I felt I had to include him.  I am unaware of any other band where the bass sounds like this - almost acoustic, almost like an upright, but not quite.

This song is so goddamn good.  I am surprised it hasn't been pinched by someone like Scorsese or Tarantino for a film.  Generally I love the scores those two directors put together, though often after a movie's success one of those tunes gets picked up by the advertising industry and played ad nauseam in commercials for burgers until the opening chords make me want to vomit red meat in the collective faces of whoever is on the board of directors.  Dick Dale's Miserlou for example was in I think every single fucking commercial for every single product you could buy between 1994 and 1996.  Now, on the one hand, that's great, because I feel like Dick Dale finally got some recognition and probably a decent payout, and I don't begrudge him that at all.  I might very well come back to him when we get to guitarists.  But on the other hand, that process of a song like Miserlou or Tomoyasu Hotei's Battle Without Honor or Humanity being co-opted by the advertising world makes me more than a little sick to my stomach.

Ahem.  I'm way off track here.  This thing will probably get stuck in your head, and it will be almost immediately apparent why it will probably never be used in a commercial.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLHi3wiSuWc

Jaco Pastorius (WEATHER REPORT)

Again, I would say Jaco isn't underappreciated I don't think, but it does seem like he's fading a bit in the collective memory.  What he did for music in general and particularly for the bass guitar is nothing short of monumental.  There are a ton of wonderful apocryphal stories about Jaco, but one of my favorites is that when asked about the future of jazz, he replied "Well, I'll be in Miami next week."

He modified a standard Fender jazz bass to be fretless.  He had different stories about when and how he removed the frets - one of them was that he removed the frets with a butter knife and sealed the fretboard with epoxy resin.

Like so many great musicians, he had serious problems with substance abuse.  I guess he could be a real asshole when he drank (as so many of us can) and he liked to drink (as so many of us do).  He was frequently homeless the last few years of his life.  His death at thirty five was a tragedy of his own making - this is from the Wikipedia entry on Jaco:

On September 11, 1987, Pastorius sneaked onstage at a Santana concert at the Sunrise Musical Theater in Sunrise, Florida. After being ejected from the premises, he made his way to the Midnight Bottle Club in Wilton Manors. After reportedly kicking in a glass door, having been refused entrance to the club, he became involved in a violent confrontation with Luc Havan, a club employee who was a martial arts expert. Pastorius was hospitalized for multiple facial fractures and injuries to his right eye and left arm, and fell into a coma. There were encouraging signs that he would come out of the coma and recover, but they soon faded. A brain hemorrhage a few days later led to brain death. He was taken off life support and died on September 21, 1987, at the age of 35.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nc6IT61FHVg

Les Claypool (PRIMUS, LES CLAYPOOL'S FLYING FROG BRIGADE)

OK, once again, not someone who is underappreciated by any means, but I think perhaps the single most distinctive bassist stylistically I have ever heard.  Almost more than Bootsy, you can tell when Les is playing pretty much immediately.  People tend to either love him or hate him.  I love him, but I DO have to be in the mood and I'm not always.  This is a pretty early thing, from the first Primus album, but if you don't know Claypool's playing for some reason, this will give you a really good picture of why he is hailed far and wide as a bass monster.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ufAE-skaA4

That's all for now!  There are obviously a lot of other folks who deserve their own showcase, but those are the five I chose in the moment. If there is someone whose lack of inclusion feels to you as though it is an atrocity up there with family annihilation in its stark evil, if you happen to have an opinion about any of this that you'd like to share, or if you would just like to tell me about one of your favorite bass players, please DO!

Guitarists will be next.

Arms and Armor at the Art Institute of Chicago

A few days ago my wife and I decided to go to the Art Institute of Chicago. It is one of my favorite places in the city, perhaps in the world - there are so many beautiful and thought-provoking pieces there. If you are ever in the city, put it on the top of your list. It really is a world class collection, and I wanted to talk about one of the highlights from this trip - the new Arms and Armor gallery.  The last time we went, this, my favorite exhibit, was closed as they redid the gallery. I’ve loved that exhibit ever since I was a little kid. I was totally blown away the first time I saw it, and it continues to be a source of fascination for me.

I've always been enthralled by art depicting weapons and weapons that are pieces of art. As a kid, I enjoyed the Osprey books (of which I now have like two hundred pee dee effs) as well as black and white illustration - things like David Macaulay's Castle, or various pictorial archives and encyclopedias of weaponry such as A Glossary of the Construction, Decoration and Use of Arms and Armor: in All Countries and in All Times.  I loved the artwork not just of beings but also of weapons in the various tomes I had collected - the MM, PH, and DMG of course, but also Deities and Demigods (with the Cthulhu and Melnibonean mythos!  Sadly long gone now) and a handful of modules - White Plume Mountain, Expedition to the Barrier Peaks, The Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth, etc.  I used to sketch weapons when I was younger - swords mostly, but not always.

The elaborate fantasy scenarios I imagined as a kid, inspired by Dungeons & Dragons, were enriched by visits to the museum and being able to see real examples of the arms and armor.   This time around I took a lot of photos and wanted to share a few here. More professional photos of almost the entire collection are online as well at https://www.artic.edu/collection.  Most of what is on display is European from about 1500 - 1700, but the collection includes much more modern weaponry as well.  For example, though it isn't currently on display, there is a pretty extensive collection of firearms from 1850 to 1970 or so, everything from Colt Navy Revolvers to Lugers to a Walther Model PPKS Semi-Automatic Pistol, all rather tastefully gilded and decorated by Raymond Wielgus.

This stuff is invaluable as a reference for writers and artists who want to describe unique weapons and armor, and of course, they are all quite beautiful.  Blinging out one's tools of death seems to be a pretty universal thing, doesn't it? Writing this made me remember visiting Odawara Castle - the interior of that castle has been converted to a museum and one of the things they have on display are swords.  I was looking at one of these, a katana with all the hardware removed, no handle or guard, just the blade itself - and a little boy and his mom were nearby.  I heard the mom say something like "Kono o mite!" - "Hey look at this!" and the kid, maybe seven or eight years old, running up to the glass and exclaiming "Kireii!" - "Pretty!"  And he was right.  The blade was beautiful.  It seemed to be almost equal parts a deep carbon grey and white, gleaming in the museum lights.  And there was an absolutely gorgeous hamon that ran its length in the koshi no hiraita style, an undulating wave dividing light from dark - something like this blade:

As a species, we seem to have a fascination with beautiful, deadly things. They are such strong images, when used in art they sometimes leave an impression that outlasts the plot or even the characters. I think of Terminus Est, or the Judge's silver-chased rifle inscribed with "Et In Arcadia Ego." I forget the names of even fairly major characters in the New Sun series or in Blood Meridian, but I retain the images of those weapons.

Some of the engraving, carving, and etching on display at the museum and it is breathtaking. Some is intricate and witchy, some is simple and bold. Some of it is even funny! And since you are very likely tired of listening to me ramble, I'll get to the meat of this post without further ado.

Armor (and polearms) for the Papal Swiss Guards (1590, decoration in 1623-24)

The cuirass and pauldrons are ornamented with deep-blue and gold and were likely dispersed from the Vatican armory centuries ago.  The helmet features the portrait and coat of arms of Pope Julius III and dates earlier than the armor.

The Guard of the Electors of Saxony (~1580)

The electors of Saxony retained one of the more extravagant bodyguard units in Europe, with over 100 men on horseback and on foot. Each succeeding elector ordered a new series of weapons ornamented with his personal device or coat of arms - an ostentatious display

As the electors derived much of their wealth from the Saxon silver mines, they equipped their officers with swords and daggers adorned with silver plaques. The morion is painted black with gilt etching to match the guard’s black-and-gold livery. Guards mounted on horseback carried a pair of wheellock pistols, or puffers, while those on foot bore staff weapons such as this glaive and halberd. The powder flask features a carved figure of a Saxon guard from about 1600.

The Guard of the Electors of Saxony (~1580)

Helmet detail.

The Guard of the Electors of Saxony (~1580)

Matched pistols detail.

Armor for Man and Horse  (1520)

This is one of the first things you see when you walk in and it is IMPRESSIVE. Picturing this dude riding you down is kinda scary. This is not for a "noble knight" but a hired man-at-arms.

Heavy Cavalry (Cuirassier) Helm (1620-40)

Speaking of scary, look at this fucking thing, with the nasty little pointy teeth showing in the thin smile and the great empty eye sockets.  I kind of want to do a painting of someone wearing this.  There's actually a lot more of this, a composite suit of armor for heavy cavalry that includes a full upper torso and tassets.

Heavy Cavalry - unfortunately I don't have much more info on this one.

Armor for the Joust (~1560)

The feathers  and trappings are a recreation - apparently only about a dozen examples of original horse trappings survive from the time period.  Really gives you an idea what a tournament would have been like.  The lance is looooooong.

Infantry Armor and Targe (1590-1600)

This would have been a noble's armor.  The bands on this one depict various Labors of Hercules.  The design of this armor was to protect the upper body while leaving the legs unarmored for fast movement.  The spike and petals at the center of the shield were intended to catch and divert an opponent's bladed weapon.

Armor for Field and Tourney with Plackart (1550-60)

The plackart (an additional, reinforcing breastplate) which is displayed beside the armor provided an optional second layer to protect against firearms or heavy hits from a lance.

Composite Field Armor (1510-20)

This suit is drawn from different armors from the same period.  The composite represents a typical field harness intended for heavy cavalry armed with lance and sword.  The globular form of the breastplate, bellows-shaped visor, and fluted / rippled surfaces classify it as a "Maximillian" armor, so named after the Holy Roman Emperor Maximillian I, who popularized this style.

Lots of swords (1200 -1500)

The plaque describes an emerging arms industry as certain regions became famous for the quality of their arms.  It mentions southern Germany, the Rhineland, and Milan in Italy as among the most notable.

More of the stuff in the same case as above.

Portions of a Field Armor for Man and Horse (~1525)

The two people who worked on this harness were considered a dream team - Kolman Helmschmid (the work is right there in his name!) was considered the most innovative armorer of his generation, while Daniel Hopfer is credited as the first artist to translate the armor-decorating technique of acid etching into a printmaking medium.

Nobles often ordered their armor from a distance.  This suit has adjustments to the rivets and cut edges that reveal it was modified to better fit its owner.

I love these huge two-handed swords!  This mounted collection, from left to right:

Two Handed Sword (1580-1600)

Halberd (1500-1550)

Infantry Armor and Bergonet (~1560 I think - hard to read)

Halberd (1500-1550)

Two Handed Sword (1580-1600)

Various Rapiers (1550 -1630)

Sadly, I didn't take a picture of the placard for this beautiful saber (?) and I cannot find it in the collection database at the Art Institute site.

Again, I cannot for the life of me find any information about this gemstone-studded sword on the Art Institute site and I forgot to get a picture of the accompanying plaque.  But it's really something and I'd like to know more about it!

Boar spears, what I suspect is a heavy crossbow in the middle with a few other crossbows nearby, various swords and guns - I think the centerpiece stag's head is from the same time period, but I am not certain.

Triple-Barreled Wheellock Pistol (1610-20) - Top

The half minute needed to wind and load a wheellock pistol led to the invention of various multilock and multibarrel systems. Here three independent pistols are stocked together with alternating triggers.

To fire the weapon, the shooter need only rotate the grip on the gun and pull the next trigger.

Wheellock / Matchlock Gun (1580-1600)

Another beautiful stock

Wheellock Rifle of Archduke Charles of Styria (1571)

The engraving on this is just amazing.  The cheek shows the Judgement of Paris.  Further up is Cleopatra committing suicide with an adder at her breast.

Wheellock Rifle of Emperor Leopold I (1664)

The carvings on this are wild – they show a hunter roasting on a spit with his faithful hound in a cauldron.  There is a German inscription along the rifle translates as:

To us hares came the chance that we could roast dog and huntsman who formerly skinned and ate us.  We avenge them with these measures.

Combined Axe-Flintlock Gun - Dagger (1660-80)

What an insane contraption. I love it!  and of course the inlay is gorgeous.

The axe part.

Detail of the Axe-Flintlock-Dagger

Another detail from the Axe-Flintlock-Dagger

A hound chasing a stag in this VERY close up on the last piece.

I have many more photos but that's all I'll subject you to for the moment.  And check out the site -I'm pretty certain that only 50% or less of the collection is on display, but there are photos over there of just about everything I think.  

The other major highlight from this trip was an exhibition devoted to the works of Remedios Varo which opened this last summer.  I was not very familiar with Varo's work before seeing this exhibit - I think the only reason I was aware at all is probably because of the Was It Likely blog (bless you Screwhead for your exquisite taste in art and for attributing all of it).  I really enjoyed it.  As I examined her work, it struck me that she and John Blanche have stylistic similarities.  I hope I get a chance to do a write up on that next time around!